


Sleepless in the Stronghold

by Lassenby



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Not really Talion, Rape Fantasy, just Ratbag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 19:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18946978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassenby/pseuds/Lassenby
Summary: When Ratbag is unable to sleep, he fantasizes about what the ranger could have done to him on the night they first met.





	Sleepless in the Stronghold

It was never quiet in the stronghold. Always the caragors snarled in their cages, orcs sang drunkenly around campfires, and someone hammered the dents out of their armor. The voices of uruk hai rang out through the night, echoing against the stone, raised in argument or laughter or, occasionally…

Ratbag, curled up in his nest for the night, couldn’t block out the sounds of grunting and moaning that emanated from somewhere below. When the background cacophony dipped low, he thought he could even hear faint, fleshy slaps.

It went on and on. Earlier in the evening, he’d shouted out the window and thrown a boot, only to duck as it was thrown back, followed by a surprisingly well-aimed brick.

Ratbag snarled and turned over in his bed of rags.

Everything else, he could sleep through. The shouts and swears, the clatter of steel. But this...for reasons other than volume, Ratbag couldn’t tune it out.

Face flushed, hot with shame and arousal, he pawed at his clothed erection. He knew that other orcs didn’t take care of themselves in this way. They simply paired off for a quick fuck, or took what they wanted from a weaker subordinate.

But never Ratbag. By orcish standards, Ratbag was too skinny, too short, too hunched to be considered attractive. A puny specimen, one not fit even for the dregs of the stronghold’s population.

So he wouldn’t settle for them, either. Not even in the fantasies that played behind his eyelids on sleepless nights like this. Not so long ago, he used to. He’d imagine dominating the high-ranking uruks who tormented him during the day, using them in ways that shamed and sullied them in the eyes of the clan. Or sometimes, in his most desperate moments, he would furtively jerk off to thoughts of being dominated himself, of being fought over and used by orcs who would regard him as nothing more than a pretty cocksleeve.

On those nights, he always finished much more quickly, leaving him with a sick feeling of shame in his gut.

Not anymore. If they didn’t want him, he didn’t want them. Because he had recently met someone else. A human ranger.

Of course, the ranger wouldn’t have had him, either. Tarks were as naturally repulsed by uruk hai as orcs were of them. Ratbag should have been disgusted by the ranger’s smooth skin, flat face and reverse colored eyes. But he wasn’t. (Although his imagination did skim around these details, not lingering longer than it needed to on some of the tark’s more off-putting features.)

While he rutted against his own hand and listened to the orcs screwing outside, Ratbag’s mind drifted, not for the first time, to his ranger. It was hard to imagine dominating the mysterious grave-walker, especially when he had once dominated Ratbag in ways the orc had never even imagined, not in his darkest nightmares, driving his will like a spike directly into his skull. The grave-walker had dug around in Ratbag’s mind while he knelt helpless and slack jawed at his feet.

So it was easier to slip into a fantasy in which he violated Ratbag in other ways. During their first meeting, Ratbag had been on his knees, his hands tied behind his back, unable to escape or fight. The ranger could have taken advantage of that.

Ratbag closed this eyes and returned to that night, except instead of cutting him loose, the ranger gripped his hair and wrenched his head back. The man’s gaze was icy as he studied Ratbag, imperious and unimpressed. He hooked a thumb into the corner of Ratbag’s mouth, then turned the orc’s head this way and that, inspecting his teeth.

“You had better not bite, orc,” the ranger said impassively, sliding his thumb down to pry Ratbag’s mouth open far enough for his jaw to ache. “Or it will be the last thing you ever do.”

“‘ite?” Ratbag tried to ask.

If it bothered the ranger to have Ratbag drooling all over his hand, he didn’t show it. A moment later, when he unslung his belt and pulled out his erect cock, Ratbag understood why.

The real Ratbag’s breaths came in erratic puffs as he imagined his own surge of revulsion. What would he have done? Would he have threatened the man? Or begged? Writhed in a desperate attempt to free himself from his bonds? He could practically feel the rope cutting into his wrists as he yanked against them, his heart pounding with black, claustrophobic terror.

The ranger would ignore any of Ratbag’s pitiful attempts to negotiate or escape. Without ceremony, still holding Ratbag’s mouth open, he would slide his cock down the orc’s throat, inch by merciless inch.

In his shadowy nest, the real Ratbag’s hand pumped his cock freely, while he imagined a version of himself who couldn’t, even if he wanted to. His wrists ached above his head even while the ranger roughly used his mouth. The man’s fingers tangled in Ratbag’s hair while he fucked his face, each time thrusting in all the to the hilt, hard and fast.

Ratbag fought his gag reflex. If he lost that battle, who knows what the grave-walker would do to him? Thick drool welled up, slicking the length that slammed in and out of his mouth and swinging from his chin in ropey strands. His eyes scrunched shut, Ratbag struggled for each breath pulled through his nose.

Real Ratbag covered his mouth to muffle his quiet whines, as his mind played over what it would feel like: his tongue going numb and jaw aching under the continued assault, his stomach churning as the ranger’s cock rammed down his throat, and, despite himself, his own erection straining against his trousers.

He forgot to keep his jaw stretched wide, just for a moment, and one of his sharp teeth snagged the underside of the ranger’s cock. The organ slipped out of his mouth. Before Ratbag could suck a desperate breath, the ranger slapped him across the face so hard that black spots filled his vision.

Real Ratbag could practically feel the sting. The sound echoed in his mind, a deafening smack that brought him nearly to his edge.

Spit slicked cock pressed into his throat again, but now the ranger’s free hand, the one not gripping Ratbag’s hair, had unsheathed his knife. The blade pressed up against the orc's windpipe, a constant reminder to mind his teeth. A sob wrenched Ratbag’s body, tears and snot and snot dripping down his face, but still he was careful, so careful, not to let his teeth graze against the cock slamming in and out of his mouth.

Ratbag’s real teeth were sunk into the back of his arm, biting down to keep his whines inaudible. The last thing he needed was for some nosy shrakk to hear him. To be discovered this way, pleasuring himself because no other orc would lower themself to breed him, would be more shameful than rape he fantasized about.

He was close. He would have to rush to end the scenario in his mind, or else spill over before it’s culmination- an anticlimactic feeling, which he had accidentally experienced many times before.

A recap reel flashed through Ratbag’s mind- all his favorite parts. The ranger jerking his head back and prying open his mouth. His aching jaw stretched wide by the ranger’s thick cock, his face a mess of tears, snot and spit. His own straining cock, untouched. Helpless, his hands tied, the ranger’s blade pressed against his throat.

The ranger’s hips slammed forward one final time. His cock throbbed against Ratbag’s tongue, fucking so far down his throat that the orc couldn’t taste it when he came.

Ratbag’s throat worked around the ranger’s cock, swallowing every last-

His orgasm hit so hard that he nearly loosed a cry anyway, in spite of his efforts to be quiet. His hips jerked off the ground as ribbons of spunk landed across his bare belly, muscles taut, limbs quivering.

When it was over, Ratbag slumped back into his nest. He wiped off with a rag and tossed it into the corner, then shoved his softening cock back into his trousers.

The other orcs must have finished, too. The stronghold was, if not quiet, at least devoid of the telltale grunts and slapping sounds that had kept Ratbag awake for so long into the night. Curled up in his nest of old rags, growing drowsy at last, Ratbag allowed himself a softer fantasy.

In this fantasy, he was not dominant, nor was he dominated.

Ratbag imagined the ranger lying close beside him, running gentle fingers through his hair. He pictured the ranger’s eyes, no longer steely with mistrust, as the were in reality; neither did he favor Ratbag with the cold, unimpressed gaze of his dirtier fantasies.

In Ratbag’s imagination, as waking thought gave way to dreams, the ranger looked at him warmly.

 


End file.
